There's Something About St. Tropez (13 page)

With an astonished look on her still tearstained face, Sara followed Belinda obediently out of the café, trailed by Nate, who headed for his Ducati with the intent of exploring the coast.

“What say we go back and hit the beach?” Billy said to Laureen.

She frowned. “Must we?”

“You betcha,” her daddy said.

Watching them all walk away, Mac said wonderingly, “How did this happen to me? I came for a private little vacation alone with my woman and now I find myself in charge of four strangers who want me to find out who took their money and why.”

“And also, while you're at it, find their souls for them,” Sunny added, shrewdly.

Pirate, who always knew when it was time to go, emerged from under the table, tongue lolling, eye bright, ready for action, while Tesoro gave a sharp yelp, looking up at Sunny, who looked at Mac.

“How about that night in Paris?” he said.

“We're taking the dogs of course.”

“Not this time, hon. We'll get someone at the hotel to look after them.”

“But Tesoro . . .”

Mac gave her that familiar exasperated Tesoro-or-me look. “Come on, Sun, baby, we need to be alone. Just you and me in Paris.”

“Oh, okay,” Sunny said, already feeling guilty. But then she smiled. “Hey, the two of us. In Paris! How bad can that be?”

 

15.

 

 

Back in her hotel room Sunny stared at the pile of clothes she'd strewn across the bed. What, she wondered, did a girl wear to Paris on a warm June night? Answer: the little black dress of course. Plus if it was cool, the white silk jacket that fit snugly over it and tied prettily at the waist. And with, naturally, the new red-suede five-inch heels while praying she didn't fall over. Of course she could go with the three-inch Manolos but the new red were more funky, a little “gladiator” in style with straps that wrapped around the ankles. Definitely sexy.

And for daytime? Black pants, a white shirt, a jeans jacket, with of course, comfy black flats. And—how could she not? The cavernous new ice gray Alexander McQueen handbag that was almost big enough to hold her entire Paris wardrobe.

“All the better to shop with, Little Red Riding Hood,” she told herself looking at the huge bag with a pleased grin, completely forgetting that this was not a pleasure trip and that they were going to spend most of their time searching out Chez La Violette's owner and on the trail of Madame Lariot.

With the thought of a beautiful hotel room complete with soft lighting, a little music and a view of the rooftops of Paris outside their open windows, she added a small pile of sexy underwear, then managed to tuck the lot into a regulation-size carry-on bag.

Pleased with herself she looked across at Mac who was still on the phone trying to find a hotel.

Mac glanced at the bed piled with her usual chaos. He shook his head. “Sonora Sky Coto de Alvarez!” he said, exasperated.

She held up a protesting hand. “No, no, wait . . . let me tell you I have
two whole outfits
in this
one
small bag . . .”

“What about the rest of the stuff on the bed?”

Sunny scooped some up and pushed them back in the armoire. “There.” She grinned at him.

Mac sighed. Sunny never changed. Meanwhile, he was still on the phone, searching for a hotel. “Looks like every tourist in the world comes to Paris in June,” he grumbled. “Every hotel is booked solid.”

Sunny sank back onto the bed, the vision of her sexy night in Paris fast disappearing. Still, the alternative was pretty good. “We can always go to the beach instead.” She unzipped her bag. “I'll get my bathing suit.”

Mac shook his head again. “We have to track down the villa's owner. I'm convinced he has something to do with the scam. We'll just get to Paris then see if we can find a hotel.”

Sunny gave him a don't-do-this-to-me look. She said, “Give me the phone.” Dialing information, she asked for the number of the Paris Ritz. When she was put through, she asked to speak to the manager.

“Tell him it's a friend of Allie Ray calling,” she said. “My name is Sunny Alvarez.”

She winked at Mac. Allie Ray was a world-famous movie star and a name to be conjured with. Plus Allie Ray
was
Sunny's friend. In fact she and Mac had saved Allie's life. Sunny knew Allie would welcome them using her name.

“Madame Alvarez, how can I be of help?” The manager came on the phone.

With a smile in her voice, Sunny charmingly explained her predicament. “I'm here in France to see Allie,” she said. “I know how upset she would be if I couldn't find a room at the Ritz.”

“But
madame
, of course there is a room for you. The Ritz will welcome you as one of its own. And please, give my best regards to Miss Ray. Tell her we look forward to hosting her here at the Ritz next time she is in Paris.”

There was a smug pleased-with-herself look on Sunny's face this time as she gave Mac back the phone.

“Name-dropper,” he said.

She gave a little shrug. “What's the use of knowing names if you can't drop 'em?”

He was laughing as he threw an arm around her shoulders and wrestled her backward on top of a pile of clothes. “I'd make love to you if we didn't have a plane waiting,” he said.

Sunny put her hands on either side of his face, smiling up at him. She rubbed her nose against his, then put her lips over his. “Let it wait,” she murmured, sliding down beneath him.

 

16.

 

 

Bertrand's room was marginally larger than Laureen's but it looked quite different. A folding table set up under the window held an old laptop computer as well as a small radio-CD player that blinked the time in luminous green numbers. A little pile of clean clothes had been left by the maid on the chair a few days ago and would stay there until they were used up, to be replaced by a fresh set, because Bertrand couldn't be bothered with cupboards and drawers. He did keep a few bits in the old pine armoire though, not because he was tidy but because they hid his late-night attire: the camouflage cape and the old binoculars.

He was sitting in front of the computer, pecking at it two-fingered style, inputting information he considered important, like the events that had taken place at Chez La Violette the other night, and the strange people who had arrived in the middle of the storm.

“Riders on the storm . . .” Jim Morrison's low voice seemed almost to whisper from the tiny CD player. The music swooped around the tiny room. “Riders on the storm . . .”

Bertrand was wearing only a pair of his usual oversize shorts held up with the worn striped-silk tie that had been his father's. Bertrand didn't remember ever seeing his father, though his mother had told him that he was exactly one year old when the father left them.

One was too young to remember much, wasn't it? Bertrand had asked. But his mother had replied it was a pity the father hadn't left sooner then Bertrand would not have had to worry about remembering him at all, and nor would she.

Bertrand had found the tie at the bottom of a cupboard. He had put it in the drawer where he kept a small cardboard box with holes punctured in the top and two green caterpillars that he fed with nasturtium leaves picked in the park near where he lived, in St. Cloud, just outside of Paris.

Eventually, the caterpillars died, and for a long time Bertrand didn't even look at the tie. Until one day he couldn't find his belt and since his shorts were falling down because he was so skinny, he used the tie instead. To his mother's chagrin, he had worn it ever since.

Outside his window the sun blazed down, filtering through the leaves of the trees in the courtyard into his room. The hotel was quiet and he knew everyone must be either at the pool or on the beach. Bertrand never did that. His body was alabaster white and he might have been living in Siberia for all the sun he got.

His long hair, blond and lank, slid into his eyes. Irritated, he got up, went to the bathroom, took a pair of scissors and lopped jaggedly across his forehead. He stared at the result in the mirror. He shrugged. At least it wouldn't get in his eyes anymore. Adjusting the pale plastic glasses with their thick lenses, he went back to his work. Then he heard something.

He sat up straight in the chair. He looked behind him. He listened. There it was again.

In the crack beneath the door he saw a small black nose. Astonished, he flung the door open. A scraggy gray-brown, three-legged, one-eyed dog sat back on its haunch and gave him a grin. Bertrand had never seen a dog that could smile. Nor had he ever seen a dog with only three legs. And only one eye. Nor a dog this ugly. He felt an instant kinship.

The dog trotted past him, leapt onto the bed and lay down amid the tangled sheets. It sat there, panting slightly, then it put its nose between its paws, looking as though it meant to take a nap.

“Pirate? Pirate? Where are you?”

A woman's voice came from down the corridor. Still standing by the open door Bertrand thought quickly. He was in a dilemma. He couldn't just close the door and shut the dog in. And he couldn't ask the woman to come into his room to get the dog.

“Oh, hello.” She was standing by the open door. “You haven't by any chance seen a dog have you? A three-legged dog?”

It was the woman from Chez La Violette! The one he'd thought was a prisoner, but later had decided she was there for some important secret meeting.

“Le chien est ici, madame,”
he admitted reluctantly.

Peeking in, Sunny saw Pirate on the rumpled bed. “Oh, I'm so sorry.” She rushed in and grabbed the dog. “I apologize for Pirate.”

She stopped and took a proper look at Bertrand, all bones and glasses topped with a mop of blond hair that looked as though it had been cut with a blunt lawn mower.

“Hi, I'm Sunny.” She offered him her hand.

Bertrand glanced suspiciously at her from behind the glasses. He didn't speak to anyone if he could help it but now he had no choice.

“Bertrand Olivier.” He took her hand and made a formal little bow over it.

Sunny had never met a kid that bowed. “Hey,” she said, sympathetically because the boy was obviously so nervous. “Are you staying at the hotel with your family?”

“With my mother,” Bertrand said stiffly. He did not want to explain that his mother had left him there and that no one knew where she was. She had called him once. She was in Italy, she'd said. But now he was panicked because he knew the hotel bill had not been paid. What if she didn't come back? Would they put him in jail? But this was not this woman's business.

“Pirate likes you,” Sunny said. Then with sudden inspiration and because she felt the boy's loneliness, she said, “Tell you what, my fiancé and I have to go to Paris for a couple of days. We're leaving Pirate here. We've asked the staff to look after him, they have a sort of a kennel in the back, but because Pirate likes you—I mean, he
chose
you, came to your door right?”

“Right,” Bertrand said, still wary.

“I thought you might like to take him for walks.”

Sunny looked hopefully at him. Everyone knew small boys and dogs were meant to be together. “The staff will be responsible, though,” she added, because after all, he was just a kid.

“I understand,” Bertrand said. “I will be happy to take Pirate for walks.”

Secretly, he was thrilled, already thinking ahead to nighttime when he and his new dog would prowl the world together. “If Pirate likes, he can sleep on my bed,” he added generously.

Sunny beamed, still a bit worried, because the boy was kind of odd. “That's good then,” she said in French. “Just ask the manager for Pirate. Any time. Okay?”

“Okay.” Bertrand watched her and the dog walk back down the corridor, then he closed the door and returned to his computer.

When Sunny got back to their room, she found Mac flinging a few things into his duffel, watched nervously by Tesoro.